When We Were Young
by crashmypartyhard
Summary: Sherlock is seventeen, and has gotten himself into a pit that's more difficult to dig out of. Sent to an asylum for taking half a bottle of aspirin to cure a "horrible headache", he is taken there for addiction. There he meets Bjorne Straumsvik, an albino girl of his age, who never discerns emotions, causing him to be unable to read her. Will he be able to crack her shell?
1. When We Met

Bjorne Straumsvik is shoved into her room, still somewhat dizzy from the sedation, which is still wearing off. She stumbles, falling to the ground, but catches herself, blinking to get the room back into focus. Her husky-blue eyes leak tears as she curses herself for returning a punch. Just because she returned a punch means that she gets another stab of sedation and a thorough look at before she is thrown back into her room.

Her wet, white hair falls in her face and she slowly crawls to her bed, pulling herself up onto the drooping mattress and sitting on the edge, slumped over. Rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand she rubs, with it, the sedation. It slowly leaves._ Finally_, she thinks_._ If she were to be talking, her voice would come with an Icelandic accent; though, no matter how much she doesn't want to, they are supposed to be talking in English.

The thin white clothes she wears in this thin white room do not protect her from the growing cold outside—it's becoming winter. But she's used to it. She tosses a glance towards the iron-barred windows, the ones she can just squeeze herself through by fault of her toothpick figure, and curses them. For so long she's wanted to shove herself through the bars and never look back, but…she just can't bring herself to do it. The only person who encourages her is herself, and she usually chickens out before she touches the bars.

Day after day she sits herself on her end-table after she pulls it over to the window, staring out into the isolation of Iceland. She'll eat. She'll sleep or re-read _The Case of the Baited Hook _for the umpteenth time—by now she enjoys it.

She sits on the edge of her sagging bed until the sedation has worn off, and then she picks up the worn _The Case of the Baited Hook_ and flips it to her most recent page.

Tedious as her life is, and how much she wants it to change, she knows she couldn't. Not ever—because she's let too many people down (no, a specific two people and now they're gone because of her) and now her face is just an emotionless, blank slate, hidden, usually, behind a white rabbit mask. The mask was taken away when she was sedated. She feels naked without it. Exposed might be the best word.

Her doctor, Mumford, steps inside and, seeing her solitude, feels pity. He is about half a head taller than Bjorne, wearing a lab coat and worn white scrubs. A few pens and soporific occupy his breast pocket, though he knows he will never have the reason or the will to use them on her. His brown hair is cut short, and falls over his forehead.

His black shoes squeak as he walks over to Bjorne and with his left hand, brushes her hair back from her face affectionately. She looks up from her book, face blank and her right cheek becoming a big bruise from the punch the other patron threw.

Mumford smiles at her and then holds out his other hand, which holds her rabbit mask. The ears of the mask curl upward, the nose is barely visible, and the plaster it is made out of has decoratively chipped paint covering it. It is molded to her seventeen-year-old face. The only one who has seen her true face is Mumford (as well as the doctors, but to him, that doesn't count), but as for her emotions she has shown to no one.

Bjorne takes the mask, and as a last sign of affection Mumford crouches down and hugs her. Bjorne only lays one hand on his back in return. Then, with a heavy heart, Mumford leaves her.

Her gaze lingers on the door after it is closed and locked, and she wonders why he cares for her so much after what she did. Out of habit, she glances at her violin, sitting untouched in the far corner of her opened, skinny closet, where a few empty wire hangers hang and an extra pair of clothes sit, and dust collects. She will play it, but only on occasion when she can't take the cycle anymore.

Her eyes travel to the door again.

She remembers again. Before she was sent here, with nowhere to go, burns covered her back and made welts on her hands and arms. Fire had traumatized her.

Fire had stolen her emotion.

…

Sherlock Holmes hears the door behind him click—the universal sound of a door locking that he knows all too well. The woman in front of him, blonde hair curling up at the ends that makes it look like it came out of the fifties, wearing no doubt original horn-rimmed glasses, stares through them with a smug look. Her desk says "Miss White", the exact name of this place: White Asylum and Rehabilitation Center.

Her glasses sit on the tip of her nose, and first she stares at Sherlock through them, sat back in her chair, which is formed to her unappealingly pear-shaped body. After a moment she moves to the edge of her chair, which creaks, and stares at him, eyebrows raised. Her beady eyes make it hard to tell what color they are.

She looks down at the papers in her left hand. "Sherlock Holmes." Her accent is definitely British. She looks back up at him. "You _are_ Sherlock—"

"_Yes._" He breathes. His voice is deep for a seventeen-year old. His stomach feels empty, but he ignores it like he always does. Still hurts, too.

She stops and then sighs, looking down at her papers again. After a moment, she speaks. "Was it a suicide attempt?"

"No, it was an _experiment._" He says rudely, narrowing his eyes at her for a moment.

She looks back down at her papers. "We will be asking you again in the future."

Sherlock shifts in his wooden chair, but when he does some part of it just stabs him in the back—but he doesn't move, because it'd make him look uncomfortable, and he's not one for revealing any weakness, or allowing the other to feel pride in his discomfort.

"It was a _horrible_ _headache._" He retorts.

Miss White's lips press together for a moment, and Sherlock knows she's getting impatient—and he already knows she's not a very patient woman.

"Your brother, Mycroft, has told us that you can keep your jacket. We're going to have to search you, still. Empty your pockets."

Sherlock sighs and stands, though happy he doesn't have to have a bloody chair stab him in the back and make him angry—no, more angry than he already is.

_"Sherlock—Sherlock, you're awake..!"_

_"You…you took…too many pills, Sherlock."_

_"Why in the bloody hell did you do that? You have no idea how…how…_scared_ I was…"_

His brilliant mind never thought his brother cared about him much. When his brother actually looked worried he thought that he could actually have a brother for once, a real relationship with Mycroft…

But then he sends him here.

_"…I'm going to send you someplace safe, Sherlock. They're going to help you there."_


	2. Observing

Sherlock first shoves his hands into his pants' pockets, pulling out some lint and then what once might've been a dollar bill and sets them on the desk. He does the same with his jackets' pockets, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Miss White snatches the cigarettes and the lighter from the desktop and puts them in one of her drawers—_top left_—and locks it. "We don't allow cigarettes or anything of the sort, here, since it's a rehabilitation center as well. Now, is that _all_ of your pockets?"

"Yes." He says flatly.

"Good," she says. Her answer is trimmed and quick.

There is a knock at the door, and Mumford comes in, afterwards professionally crossing his hands behind his back. "Miss White, shall I take Sherlock to his room?" His accent is Icelandic.

White smiles a fake smile. "Yes, Mumford, that would be _delightful_." She turns to Sherlock, maintaining the smile. "And don't forget, if we catch you smuggling anything a punishment _will_ be laid out."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her for a slight moment before turning and walking out the door.

The hallways are dim and a small number of doctors skim the sides of the hallway. Mumford is kind to Sherlock, keeping his distance and patiently leading him first to a bathroom. He confiscates his clothes, except for his jacket, and gives him a white uniform, color a bland white and size slightly too small. The sleeves of the button-up shirt seem the right size when his arms are relaxed, but when he bends his arms at the elbow, they become taut around his elbow and come halfway up his forearm. His pantlegs just come to his ankles. His shoes are a worn, dirty white. When dressed and presentable, Mumford leads him up to the third floor of the five, to room 299.

When they walk in, Sherlock, at first, doesn't see the figure slumped on the mattress nearly molded to the left wall until Mumford says, "Bjorne." The figure looks up, and Sherlock is surprised to see a girl wearing a rabbit mask nearly the same color as her pale skin and the walls. Her wet and wavy hair cascades down her back some and over her shoulders. Her husky-blue eyes lock on his and he smiles inwardly, reading the clues she must have to lead him to her past…

_Wait._

_ …Wait…what?_

He looks to Mumford, who, in his body language, is worried. He can see pity in the way his hands fidget behind his back. He can see how Mumford refrains from swaying back and forth, a habit he has formed over spans of time spent alone in hallways and various rooms of the facility. Sherlock looks back to this "Bjorne".

_Nothing_. Not even a trail of crumbs to lead him to a beginning piece. He almost loses himself in thought before Mumford speaks again.

"Sherlock, this is your roommate, Bjorne Straumsvik. Bjorne, this is Sherlock Holmes, and he will be your new roommate." He introduces quietly. The sound disappears into the silence following.

Bjorne nods, hair shifting slightly. She tucks a stray hair back behind her ear, a small action that gives no indication of habit. Consistency, maybe. "Pleased to meet you." Her voice is a flat tone, as well. Sherlock can't read that, either, only absorbing the Icelandic accent.

Sherlock smiles fakely. "En_chan_ted."

She looks down at _The Case of the Baited Hook _again. "That was a fake smile, wasn't it?"

He immediately drops the smile, unpleased with her flat-toned smugness. At least, what the choice of words lead him to conclude.

"I'll be coming in soon with food for the both of you." Mumford interrupts, turning to Sherlock, nodding. "I hope you enjoy your stay here, Sherlock." Then he leaves.

Sherlock catches glimpse of what he thinks is Bjorne's eyes lingering on the door, but they quickly avert back to _The Case of the Baited Hook._

He decides to explore. He feels the bed, which is sagging horribly and mattress short in height. He assumes that he can fit his tall body onto it, though. He opens his closet, empty except for a few wire hangers and an extra pair of clothes. _Very dusty,_ he thinks to himself, holding back a cough.

He looks over to Bjorne, nose in her book. He keeps staring at her as he walks over to his bed and sits down. It creaks, and Bjorne reacts to the noise by lifting her eyes up to Sherlock and then back to her book. Sherlock knows the book—he's read most of the Perry Mason books, most when he was a child. He doesn't read them anymore. Although he's almost tempted as to how many times she has read the book. He's almost tempted to ask how long she's been in here.

But he knows he'll figure it out in time.

* * *

The food comes in almost a half an hour: tea with toast, a bowl of noodles, and lettuce with dressing. He sits on his bed and carefully observes Bjorne as she eats, tray balanced on lap and book held open with thumb and pinky in her left hand as she eats with her right. He concludes that is her dominant hand.

Either she chooses to ignore his constant staring—no, _observing_—or she is too occupied with eating and reading and trying to balance her food on her lap that she just doesn't notice him.

And then she speaks. "Do you always stare at people like this?" her voice slightly surprises him. _So she does notice. _

"I like to observe."

She doesn't say anything else, just averts her eyes back to her book. Sherlock takes a first sip of his tea.


End file.
